“And it’s too late for you to be punished
for anything,” ses Peter, arter a moment.
Bill Jones groaned agin, and then, shaking ’is
’ead, began to w’isper ’is wrong-doings.
When the doctor came in ’arf an hour arterward
all the men was as quiet as mice, and pore Bill was
still w’ispering as ’ard as he could w’isper.
The doctor pushed ’em out of the way in a moment,
and then ’e bent over Bill and felt ’is
pulse and looked at ’is tongue. Then he
listened to his ’art, and in a puzzled way smelt
at the bottle, which Jasper Potts was a-minding of,
and wetted ’is finger and tasted it.
[Illustration: “The doctor felt ’is
pulse and looked at ’is tongue.”]
“Somebody’s been making a fool of you
and me too,” he ses, in a angry voice.
“It’s only gin, and very good gin at that.
Get up and go home.”
It all came out next morning, and Joe Barlcomb was
the laughing-stock of the place. Most people
said that Mrs. Prince ’ad done quite right, and
they ’oped that it ud be a lesson to him, but
nobody ever talked much of witchcraft in Claybury
agin. One thing was that Bill Jones wouldn’t
’ave the word used in ’is hearing.
Mr. Richard Catesby, second officer of the ss. Wizard,
emerged from the dock-gates in high good-humour to
spend an evening ashore. The bustle of the day
had departed, and the inhabitants of Wapping, in search
of coolness and fresh air, were sitting at open doors
and windows indulging in general conversation with
any-body within earshot.
[Illustration: “Mr. Richard Catesby, second
officer of the ss. Wizard, emerged from the
dock-gates in high good-humour.”]
Mr. Catesby, turning into Bashford’s Lane, lost
in a moment all this life and colour. The hum
of distant voices certainly reached there, but that
was all, for Bashford’s Lane, a retiring thoroughfare
facing a blank dock wall, capped here and there by
towering spars, set an example of gentility which
neighbouring streets had long ago decided crossly was
impossible for ordinary people to follow. Its
neatly grained shutters, fastened back by the sides
of the windows, gave a pleasing idea of uniformity,
while its white steps and polished brass knockers were
suggestive of almost a Dutch cleanliness.
Mr. Catesby, strolling comfortably along, stopped
suddenly for another look at a girl who was standing
in the ground-floor window of No. 5. He went
on a few paces and then walked back slowly, trying
to look as though he had forgotten something.
The girl was still there, and met his ardent glances
unmoved: a fine girl, with large, dark eyes, and
a complexion which was the subject of much scandalous
discussion among neighbouring matrons.
“It must be something wrong with the glass,
or else it’s the bad light,” said Mr.
Catesby to himself; “no girl is so beautiful
as that.”
